


Emergency Room

by 4RU



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Other, PTSD, most of this is just focusing on genji and mercy's relationship, robot gore?, zenyatta is a minor character here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9284981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4RU/pseuds/4RU
Summary: Genji visits the good doctor for some assistance.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I made an attempt to write Gency!

There's a bullet in his gut.

That's not entirely true. He doesn't have a gut. Not anymore. There are no organs in that vicinity of his body at all with the lot of them ending at the base of his ribcage. No stomach. No intestines. No digestive tract at all. Nothing organic; and while he _can_ process food it is little more than a luxury these days. There is nothing to gain but a taste of nostalgia; a memory of times long past.

No. There's no bullet in his nonexistent gut. But there is a bullet in his approximation of it. Truthfully not so terrible a thing. Genji has long-since cut the pain receptors to the abdominal zone. He could even ignore it, if he put enough effort into the task. It's a round from a 9mm Glock, lodged quite firmly beneath metal plating, between a coolant line and synthetic muscle. Right where the liver would be, had he still possessed one. It's knocked three of his systems offline; lesser ones, but the warnings nag all the same. Yet the only evidence of the injury is the hole in his duramesh flesh close to metal plates and the dull light signifying one of the four heat-sinks in that vicinity has been rendered non-functional.

Easy enough to ignore, if one had the practice Genji Shimada has. And oh, he's had plenty of practice indeed.

He has lost an entire arm, before. The right one, in fact. Technically that mission had been a success, but Genji's arm had been smashed and ruined. He'd not told anyone about the... injury. Then again, in those days he never submitted to social interaction unless necessary. It had been too raw, too difficult. He was angry and bitter and so very full of hatred and disgust. But there was also fear of a pitiful, desperate sort, because he _remembered_ . Oh, he remembered. His gift. His curse. His punishment. Genji _remembered_.

He remembered accepting the Overwatch representative's terms laying on that sickbed, freshly pulled from the Shimada Estate and held together with stitches and staples. He'd been so close to death, knew from the way fear coiled cold in his chest and brought tears welling to his eyes. He wouldn't last. The painkillers didn't work. He hurt and he ached, in mind and body both. The only companion in those hours-days- _years_ was his own desperation and his hate. Hate that burned hot in his mind, his body.

_Save me so I can cut the Shimada legacy on my dragon's teeth. Save me and whatever you will of me will be done._

(Save me, please. I do not want to _die--_ )

So they did. Overwatch saved him, but neglected to mention the strings attached to that agreement. He _remembered_ , simply because he couldn't _not_ remember. His body, his mind. He remembered coming out of the operation. He remembered screaming until his voice went out. He remembered having to be forcibly strapped to the table. He remembered thrashing until his joints dented. He remembered the surgeon's pitying expression.

That day was thought to be the worst in his life. Worse even than the night his own brother raised his blade against him. Hanzo, at least, had not _violated_ him, had not twisted him into some disgusting, horrific, perverted _amalgamation_. Hanzo had attempted to let him die a man. To Overwatch, he was nothing but a _thing_. A weapon. Not a man. Not a person. Just a blade to be turned on their enemies.

The arm was the worst part. The right arm, with its automated dispenser, with its mechanical intricacies. Truly a marvel, to anyone who wasn't Genji Shimada. Beautiful in its simplicity, its deadly efficiency. And then it was smashed in a small miscalculated firefight. He smashed it and he could see the wires, the circuitry within. Pistons and systems all opened and revealed, sparking and clicking. His visor lit with warnings, displaying a myriad of problems and errors. Like one of those unwanted popup messages on a computer screen, the kind that warned someone of a need to restart for updates to take effect.

 _> error 000087b_  
_ > error 000088b_  
_ > sys.RI.360.GSx offline_  
_ > heatsink.002a offline_  
_ > heatsink.002b offline_  
_ > heatsink.002c offline_  
_ > reboot failed_  
_ > core temperature critical_  
_ > error logged_  
_ > system shutdown imminent_  
_ > system shutdown imminent  
> system shutdown imminent_

The inner thermal stared him in the face, and for one moment he thought it might have just been a part of the helmet, something intrinsic. But it wasn't. Those were his eyes, that was his arm. He was reading a _data feed_ about his _fucking arm_. There was no “ouch, this is an exceedingly painful sensation”, there was just _that_ \- numbers and letters on a screen built into his eyeballs.

_Like a machine._

Everything hurt. It hurt so much, so unbelievably _much_. His chest. His head. His _mind_. He couldn't feel his arm, even when he grabbed an inner mechanism with shaking fingers and ripped it clean out. Not even when he tore into the port and pulled and pulled, tearing away wires and synthetic muscle. No sensation, _nothing_! Nothing but more and more warnings popping up in his eyes, warnings of heart rate and fluid pressure and body temperature that each and all went ignored because _he couldn't feel a single thing he was just a_ machine _just this_ tool _nothing nothing--_

It had been Reinhardt who found him like that, ripping into himself and spitting and snarling and sobbing – like a howling wind battering away at a rickety old door. And he fought the man, or attempted to. He bit and clawed and thrashed when Reinhardt grabbed him and pinned his working arm to his side, as he picked the cyborg up and carried him the whole way to the medical bay. Genji fought every single step of the way, even as he was strapped and bolted down to the operating table. He yanked at restraints and tired so hard that his jaw had to be forcibly wrenched open and a dental plate shoved between his teeth so he could not bite his tongue off.

And once the adrenaline had passed through his system, he cried. Not a few tears. No, he sobbed and wailed, choking on his own tears and snot. He cried and bawled and begged please _, let it end_ as doctors and even Morrison came to survey the damage. He cried even as Morrison rounded on the head medic, even as they argued right in front of his trapped body.

“ _I TOLD you to put a kill switch on him!”_

“ _He is a_ man _not some rogue_ maschine _-!”_

“ _He's a fucking danger to everyone in this goddamn facility! Do your fucking_ job _, Ziegler!”_

“ _If you had followed my recommendations and assigned a therapist to him he would not be so volatile!”_

“ _If you had done your job right the first time then your little science experiment would actually function!”_

“My _experiment? You and your superiors are the ones who turned_ my _technology into a weapon!_ Geh weg! _Out! Leave so that I may work!”_

To the woman's credit, Angela Ziegler did not immediately set to work, even after the Morrison made his exit. She sighed and collected herself, letting anger and frustration bleed from her body. Genji tracked her with his eyes as she tied her hair back, shrugged on her coat, and fetched the tools she would need. It did not help his unease, though with his body and mind so exhausted there was little else he could do but gnaw at the gag and let more tears fall down his scarred cheeks.

Angela apologized, he recalled. A soft, sincere sort or apology. The kind that would move anyone, were they in the right state of mind to hear it properly. Genji was not. He raged instead, hating her more than ever. She did this to him. She made him this, this- _machine_. It was _her_ fault. It was _all her fault_ \-- And then she injected something within a functional fluid line and Genji was promptly rendered unconscious.

For a time. How long, he could not tell. His chronometer had been knocked offline with the rest of those systems. But he woke all the same. A disorientating sensation in an of itself. He woke to the bright fluorescent lights and stale coppery scent, discovering he was no longer within his restraints. Not restrained, but unable to move. His arm wouldn't work, neither would his legs. It didn't make sense until later, much later, that he couldn't move simply because his limbs had been disconnected to check for injury and error, for simple maintenance. That was a lesser concern.

No, what got Genji's attention was when he looked down. Such a simple thing to do. Such a huge fucking mistake. He looked down, idly, not even truly considering the motion – as if he were doing nothing more than blinking. But he looked _down_ and he _saw_ and he _remembered_ -

He had been flayed open. No chest panel. No synthetic muscle. It had been removed, pulled aside, revealing the bone beneath. He saw his own ribcage, or the remains of it. He saw his own sternum, metal plated with wires threaded through. He could count his own bones, the ones that survived, the ones that had been replaced. He could see tubes and lines and wires upon wires threaded so neatly through. And when he sucked in a breath, he could his own synthetic lungs expanding, filling the bone-metal-bone cage.

Genji panicked. He utterly, completely panicked. Fear and anguished collided in equal turns. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He started to shake, tried to close his eyes, failed. He couldn't look away. He couldn't look away and he could _see it_ , he could see the way his lungs fluctuated with each hasty inhale, he could see the ruined remnants of his heart thundering in its spot. He could _see_ -

Somewhere, between the choked whines and stuttering breaths, Genji _wailed_. He screamed and screamed, loud enough that his voice echoed off the walls. He didn't hear it himself, heard nothing but a distinct ringing in his ears and static silence otherwise. He didn't hear Angela rushing up to him, her voice trying to soothe and calm him. He didn't even notice her readying a dose of whatever had knocked him out the first time. But he passed out with a scream on his tongue all the same.

After that day his hatred for Angela knew no bounds. Try as he might (and he did) he could not purge his mind/memory banks of the site of his chest broken open upon that table. A flaw-feature- _flaw_ of the new him. He would remember everything perfectly – a useful ability for missions. A pain in the ass for trying to forget. He had been rebuilt, but each time he looked down he could see his body open and exposed, as if it were taunting him.

Machine. Machine. _Machine_.

And now, years later in the present, there is a bullet in his side and warning messages behind his eyes and all he can think of is that day beneath the fluorescent lights and his chest flayed open on a table. It was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

Genji Shimada had thought himself healed. Under careful tutelage, he had come to accept himself, had managed to find it in his synthetic heart to forgive what had been done to him, and those who had been instrumental in it. He is at peace with who he is, what he is. He's _been_ at peace. He's come so far, so very far from those days of hating anyone and anything.

And here he is. Hiding from the inevitable trip to the doctor, because he's scared. _Scared!_ Like a child dreading a shot!

No. No, it is more than that. He's scared, yes, but he's scared of losing himself once more. He's scared of looking down and seeing that memory and letting everything he's fought so hard to gain slip through his fingers. There is no shame in this fear, he tells himself. Irrational though it may be, shameful it is not.

He inhales.

Exhales.

_Sat._

_Nam._

Again. Inhale. Exhale. _Sat. Nam_.

Like that, Genji allows himself to think and to meditate. Thoughts flow through him. The past. The present. He thinks of all that happened, on all that could transpire. And then the lets those thoughts pass along, lets his worries go. Releases his hold on those emotions. He lets them fly away like summer birds flying in the wind. The tension in his spine goes. His shoulders sag. He inhales.

Exhales.

When he opens his eyes it is with a newfound confidence. It will not last, but it is enough. Genji lets it move his footsteps, lets it guide him out of his room and down the halls of the Gibraltar facility. He weaves through quickly, glad that no one seems to be about at this time, knowing that even being stopped once would snap his willpower and send him back to his room to stew on it more.

For the first time, Genji comes to the medical bay of his own volition. It is a strange thought, knowing years ago he had been dragged into this very room kicking and screaming. It feels important, somehow. A testament to how much he has grown.

_I am whole._

Genji swallows down the pride that swells in his throat. There is still a bullet in his side and getting emotional will not remove it from him any faster. “Angela?”

He finds her in the back, toiling over her Valkyrie suit. And while it's such a simple thing, the sight of that suit is enough to bring his nervousness back to the forefront of his mind – it looks like his body. It would, it's Angela's technology, but that suit looks so much like him and _and_ -

“Genji!” The doctor wheels around, surprise evident. But she doesn't comment on it, on his unassisted presence in her med bay. If anything, she's smiling kindly and Genji can only return the gesture from behind his visor. “Is something wrong?”

“Ah-” He shifts. A little. A light tap of foot to foot. “I seem to have been shot, Angela. The bullet is in my abdominal section and some of my systems have gone offline. Could you...?”

“ _Natürlich!_ ” She turns from her suit and moves, gesturing for him to follow her to the unused operating room.

And he does, but with each step his anxiety gets worse and worse. But, in spite of it all, he's here now. He's here and she knows and he can't back off and that is enough to keep him going. One step at a time.

Mercy pats the table and falls into the chair, and Genji settles there with some hesitation. He debates asking for the restraints, then inhales and decides no. No. He's gotten better. He can do this without the restraints. He trusts Angela. He trusts her even as he watches her bring a tray of tools and snaps on her gloves. He trusts her.

He can do this.

The doctor doesn't immediately set to work, though. She pauses instead, blinks in surprise and pulls out her phone. “Ah, one moment Genji. I'll return shortly!” And Genji can only watch as she hurries out, bringing the phone to her ear and murmuring rapidly on the other line.

It leaves him alone with his thoughts again, and gives him time to get his nerves back under control. Inhale. Exhale. Don't think of being flayed open. Don't think of those days. It's in the past. Inhale. Exhale. Peace. Calm. He is no longer the man he once one. He is _whole_. The stress flows from him. Yes, he is whole and at peace. It will not be so bad.

Footsteps herald the doctor's return. Genji steels himself as Angela peeks in, smiles, and nudges the door ajar. Such an odd gesture that he is confused as she reaches back and holds it further open, then he is only surprised. Mercy did not return alone, as he has presumed. Instead Zenyatta floats in behind her, murmuring a polite word of thanks for her thoughtfulness, and Genji feels his chest suddenly constrict.

He hadn't wanted to get his once-master involved with this. Partially because he didn't want Zenyata to see him open and bared to the outside elements with Angela's hands taking him apart. Partially because he didn't want to trouble the omnic with such a matter. But mostly, he didn't want to get Zenyatta involved because he genuinely thought – no, he wanted to _believe_ that he could handle it himself. An accomplishment he'd wanted reflect on with the monk and smile, “ _look at how much you have helped me!_ ” A bit of pride for himself and to bask in with his former mentor.

Zenyatta settles at the head of the operating table, affixed in place by whatever energy that keeps him in the air. He cannot smile, technically, but Genji _knows_ he's smiling anyway Zenyatta is like that. Smiling without smiling. It used to piss him off, in the days when he first met the omnic. Now he can feel himself starting to return the smile, his body already beginning to relax.

_Chameleon effect. Just the chameleon effect._

“Will I be in your way, Dr. Ziegler?” Zenyatta's question is soft spoken, in the tone he usually reserves for periods of meditation, as if hesitant to disturb the silence.

“ _Nein_. You are fine. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“It is my pleasure. I am always willing to assist.” Genji looks up as Zenyatta's array comes into view, blocking his line of sight. He's about to fuss about his companion being a worrier, or apologize for interrupting and taking up his valuable time, but Zenyatta forestalls his questions with fingertips pressing to the metal on the sides of his head. “May I remove this, Genji? So that Dr. Ziegler may get to work?”

Why his visor needs to come off, he doesn't know. The bullet is in his abdominal region, not his head, but right now he can do little else but nod (indeed, the thought of doing anything else doesn't even cross his mind). So he nods and Zenyatta dips his fingers in just so, depresses the latches and slides his mask away. He blinks as bright light floods into his eyes, making them water for a moment. And then Zenyatta touches his nose with the tip of a single metal finger, and Genji cannot help but to _laugh_ at how sudden and surprisingly silly the action is.

“Would you recite the Adi mantra with me, Genji?” Yoga, the Shambali have found, is an excellent teaching tool when it comes to meditation. Naturally, under Zenyatta's careful instruction, Genji learned as well – it proved quite useful in those early weeks when he could not quite manage to keep still for meditation. And so he nods, licking his lips dry and readying to follow the omnic's lead.

They hum and chant together, neither in the proper pose nor truthfully caring of that detail. Zenyatta's voice leads and Genji echos him, eyes closed and body lax. They chant for some time, _ong namo guru dev namo_ , again and again. One minute in, the words wash away and become little more than a vibration on his tongue, numb in his mouth, his controlled breathing now timed subconsciously. After that, Genji loses track.

How he doesn't notice Angela working on him, Genji could not tell you. The doctor doesn't trip his sensors at all, in fact. He feels no tug of discomfort, nor even the sensation of her hands working at all. The only thing that fills his mind is the sound of Zenyatta's voice in his skull, and the vibration of the mantra on his tongue.

So when Mercy announces “ _Ich habe fertig_ ”, Genji jumps a little in place, gasping out in surprise and pressing a hand to his chest. The blonde then wilts, murmuring a soft apology, but continues on nonetheless, smiling brightly. “You are done, Genji. Everything should be well.”

“Ah,” and he's still coming back from the brief meditation session, so all the cyborg can really manage to say is a barely-eloquent “thank you, Angela” as he presses a curious hand to his side to inspect. Yes, indeed, the hole was gone and that heatsink repaired, as well as the systems the bullet so happened to tear through. Gone. And he didn't even notice.

Behind him, Zenyatta chuckles. “As efficient as always, Dr. Ziegler. You have my thanks.”

“Ach, I should be thanking _you_ .” Why, she doesn't elaborate. But she doesn't _need_ to elaborate. Genji knows quite well how much of a terror he had been in the past when it came to check ups. The knowledge, now, makes his ears burn in shame. And he reaches for his faceplate, taking it from the omnic (but not before bringing his knuckles to his lips for a quick, grateful kiss) and slotting it into place.

“I apologize for the trouble, Angela--”

But Angela waggles her fingers at him with a scowl, cutting him off. “Not trouble and not your fault. I will not hear a word otherwise. Now go on! Both of you! I have important work to get back to before _meine Frau_ returns!”

Genji grins, not needing to be told twice. He takes Zenyatta's hand and goes, slipping out of the med back and back to the base. And when they are alone, he thanks his lover for his thoughtfulness and help today, to which Zenyatta laughs in that bright, joyful way of his.

“My dear, you know I am always willing to assist when you fail to dodge a bullet.”

**Author's Note:**

> I failed. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
